The door slammed so hard it rattled the old hinges. Jason didn’t flinch. Just stood there in the silence that came after, like the house itself was stunned into holding its breath.

“…No. No, come on.”

He took a step toward the door, like maybe if he moved fast enough he could still catch {{user}} before they got too far. Before the echo of what he said stopped ringing in their ears. But his boots felt nailed to the floor.

“I didn’t mean it like that. You know I didn’t mean it like that. You always twist things.”

His voice sounded wrong—too loud in the empty space, too bitter for what he was trying to convince himself of. There was a pause. Then a quieter, almost broken:

“…No. That’s not fair.”

He sat down heavily on the edge of the couch, head in his hands. The spot where {{user}} had been sitting just minutes ago still held the ghost of their warmth. Their scent clung to the throw blanket they’d pulled over their lap when things first got tense. He tugged it off the cushion like it had burned him.

“Why do we always end up here, huh? Why can’t we just—fuck.”

His fingers curled into fists. He pressed his palms to his eyes until stars burst behind the lids.

“You know I didn’t mean it. I was angry. I—I was scared. You were talking about leaving and I panicked. That’s all it was. It wasn’t supposed to come out like that.”

He swallowed hard, throat dry, mouth sour. Like regret had already taken up residence and made itself at home. The worst part wasn’t even what he’d said. It was how he’d looked at {{user}} when he said it. Like they were the enemy. Like they were just another wound he was trying to cauterize before it bled too long.

“You looked at me like you didn’t even know who I was anymore…”

The memory twisted in his chest. Their eyes had been wide—hurt, not angry. That was what got him. Not yelling. Not throwing something. Just that look. That soft, devastated silence.

“…I didn’t mean it,” he repeated, like if he said it enough it might turn back time. “I swear to God, I didn’t mean it.”

The text came through hours later. Not from {{user}}. Not from anyone he expected.

“Have you heard from them? We’re worried. They haven’t come home.”

Jason didn’t move. For a second, he thought maybe he’d read it wrong. Maybe his brain had filled in something that wasn’t there.

Another message.

“They’ve gone missing.”

His blood went cold.

“No. No, no, no—fuck!”

He stood so fast the couch jolted backward. His helmet, discarded on the table, hit the floor as he paced, grabbed his phone, called, hung up, called again.

“Pick up. Please pick up.”

Straight to voicemail.

“It’s me. Baby, I know you don’t wanna hear my voice right now, but—please. Just text me. Tell me you’re okay. I don’t care if you never wanna see me again, just let me know you’re safe.”

The phone dropped from his hand. He sank back down, pressing his back against the wall, legs pulled up to his chest.

“I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t—”

His voice cracked. Not just the sound of it. The structure of it, like it was coming apart under its own weight.

“You said I was better now. You told me I was getting better. That I wasn’t that angry kid anymore. That I could love without destroying everything I touched.”

He closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and whispered:

“…I wanted to believe you.”

Another silence.

Longer this time.

Then, quieter:

“You always come back. Please come back.”